Bignum

The dungeon room’s stone tiles are as cold as ice water.

Flesh gives heat, just as a knife takes life.

A despondent choir of widows chants in his mind.

His gaunt frame is that of a starving, sober drunkard—deprived.

Eyes wide.

Jaw slack.

Without a word or motion, his very stance assails,

as if he were swinging himself across the room,

a dancer treading on knives.

His teeth glint gold; his skin drips tar.

His eyes glow like dim, yellowed bulbs.